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Poem for Gerry or, the Poet Goes Walking in His Backyard 

The Jays & Wrens sing his legend.     

The furry creatures call him saint, moonstruck 

uncle. He Who Dresses like a Windy Day, 

while the gnomes cast eyes of caution 

whenever he moves through the tall grass, 

murmuring his strange benedictions,  

his elegies to ribwort & tree bark. 

Each night they watch as he recedes  

like the sun, behind the doors of his domicile. 

Each morning they gather like soporific pilgrims  

waiting for him to come forth. 

Early Morning in the Old Town 

                     for August Kleinzahler 

 The 5am west-bound CSX rattles the loose-fitting panes.   

The cries and giggles of three Puerto Rican girls   

walking to school echo between apartment buildings   

& Chestnut trees. On the corner of 6th & Main   

Mr. Nasca croons All of me, why not take all of me,   

as he sweeps the sidewalk in front of the convenience store   

he’s owned since time began. The entire town — derelict & crumbling,   

yawns beneath a smoke-gray sky, while the aroma  

a fresh-brewed coffee wakes me & I rub my eyes  

to find my mother, still in her nightgown, standing on the balcony,  

staring out into the distance, as a shard of sunlight  

                                                           rests on the swollen knuckles  

of her left hand like an injured bird.  

             I’ve become a stranger here, just another vaguely familiar forehead  

passing through, trying to recapture some lost part of himself –  

an expression, or feeling trapped between tibula & funny bone, breath 

on glass. Something I can call my own. 

Sometimes We Wake Transformed  

In the ancient courts, generations of Henrys  

proclaimed: “We are the center of the universe.”  

Yet the moon people have moved among us  

since Noah’s time. Experts in camouflage,  

their lunar citadels look like nothing more  

than sky. And the sun,  

                      the sun is just a love-starved girl,  

dancing among the clover and dandelion fields.  

                     Sometimes we wake transformed 

into driftwood washed ashore. We wait for hours,   

weeks even, for someone to rescue us – 

a college professor, or old poet like Robert Bly, 

someone to carry us home & polish us into walking sticks

or eccentric sculptures to stand alongside 

dusty tomes on Norse mythology & geometry, mint tins   

from St Gallen & Tangier.

 

Spring Cleaning

Now that you are not here, I don’t know what to do

with everything that was once yours. I start with the objects:

the photographs, the notebook, the book

that weighs just as much as you weighed

when you’d hang on my arm.

The clothes: your trousers,

the shirt that you gave me and is now the memory

of absence. I continue: the thoughts that build up

in the most remote corners of the body:

glop after glop after glop of desire,

nauseating like syrup.  

And the devotion that I learned to feel,

the offering from your palm to my lips: what should I do now

with the room in my gut dedicated to worship. Finally, the memories:

inside a box inside my head, within the doubt

inside the silence, within oblivion, in the tide

that moves you closer and away,

closer and away. I will find a spot where I’ll place you,

a spot where you’ll sleep ‘til I can

see your face without parting the seas and diving

into the buried soul. Memories are not memories

if they cannot be accessed.

I will get rid of you as a snake does:

shed my skin and forget it in the underbrush. And every

single thing that used to be yours will stay there, rotting in the leaves

of a neverending fall.

 

Today, walking along with Núria

Today, walking along with Núria,

we saw clouds with pink wombs,

pregnant with virtue. And I thought of you,

and your body, and myself.

I wonder if you know. If you know

that yesterday you opened up my pink womb and

spilt what I carried inside.

I wonder if you know that, when my body vibrated

and you trembled and panted,

you were slowly pulling out my desire from inside,

like a magic trick.

And I wanted my hands

to sink into your back, like roots;

and I wanted to make you wish you could melt.

I don’t know if you know you are first, but last night

we loved twice and each time our skins met

I hoped I’d be killed from the pleasure.

If the world had dissolved,

if the bed had flooded or someone

had come into the room, we would have kept going,

our bellies linked as if it was wrong to separate them,

pink flowing and staining the sheets.

I wonder if you know all of this,

or if you’d like to see me again.

 

Womb

My body is all I have: the only truth.

I don’t have thoughts, or feelings,

or wishes, or reasons: I just have my body

which is the earth where you can plant

your orchard. I am the literal body,

the weight of the organs inside of me,

under the skin. Ask me who I am and I’ll say:

if you were to open my side with a spear,

only blood would come out. The fruit of the earth

is my body, and the fruit of my body

is my surrender: bite

the apple – it’s sour

just like you like it.

Two Rushes

Near the shore,

savouring you: fruit

of dark skin, viscous.

Run your hand through my hair,

for I’m yours and I get rid of my spirit

to become just a body

glazed in saltpeter,

stuck to the burning

sand. Listen to the waves

crashing over me.

Just like two rushes from a nearby reed,

we bend our pleasure to the beat of our joy.

 

Variations on the Topic of Eros

To love you like the bird that grows from my groin:

to fall into your arms, intoxicated, wounded by the beak

and the feathers. Even better:

to bloom over you like a fire,

to turn into fruit, into seed; to tear up desire

and wear it as a cape.

I make your body my plentiful field,

and in the evenings I sit on the plot and I taste

its sweet fruit. You’re skilled on the land

and fertile in bed.

 

Post-coital

After making love I pick up a towel and wipe

your skin. You get my t-shirt

from under your back and hand it to me saying here you go

and I secretly think to myself:

oh, how I wish this was everything there was to life,

your giving me my clothes, extending your hand toward me

with a gentle gesture, corporeal and true,

and I could say again and again

gràcies, t’estimo and kiss your forehead.

Slowly, reality changes:

whatever was hidden suddenly returns from the depths

and stands in front of us, apparent like a mountain,

as if desire had eclipsed all of the objects,

the thoughts, the truths, and now they came

crawling back, became visible again.

And, maybe because you’re near, I think about destiny,

just like near death

even atheists think about God.

I think about how this moment,  

your soft sex so close,

weaves into tomorrow inexplicably,

a puzzle from nature which, with luck,

we won’t ever need to solve.

 

Revenge

This poem is my revenge:

a caricature of who you were

on top of the image of who you are. Like a kid who, about fire,

only remembers how painful the burn,

so shall I only remember you

by the sharp edges

of these lines on white paper.

Grandmother loved the Latin names of the flowers she’d raise in her greenhouse and in her garden. She believed you should know everything about the things you love.

She made the rounds in the afternoon from one area of the garden to the other: the rose patch, the dark ivy twisting around a metal arch leading to the left of the house, the white lotus flowers floating on the pond on the other side.

She told us never to lean over the pond, even if the frogs called to us or the goldfish swam near the surface. It was deceptively deep. She also told us to never walk on the edge of the terrace, where the wild violets wilted over the side, ready to drop to the garden below.

Her home was a castle surrounded by beds of flowers and grass with the Marmara Sea a few steps below.

***

Grandmother’s childhood home had a long decorative pool in the center of the foyer lined with marble columns.

Her father would place her between them for portraits in silk dresses and braided hair. She’d spend her days taking long walks with her nanny, along the coast or to her aunt’s house. She’d walk around the garden with the gardener or watch the laundress who would come once a week to wash the family’s clothing.

Grandmother’s house had use of natural gas, running water, heating, and drinkable tap water. Her father, Ali Raif Bilek, was a major civil engineer in Turkey. He’d travel often for work; six months at a time, so Grandmother rarely saw him when she was growing up.

In 1951, Ali Raif began construction on the Birecik Bridge which crossed the Euphrates River. It was completed in 1956. During that time, Ali Raif also purchased the first automatic washing machine available in Turkey. He was a man invested in the future.

One of his ancestors was Sultan Bayezid II’s subaşı, a post similar to chief of security. The  subaşı was also in charge of setting up the Sultan’s tent when he traveled.

Such men were described as hesabini bilen—“men who settled their accounts.”

***

Growing up, grandmother came to depend on her mother. Her mother fixed all the misunderstandings between father and children and kept harmony in the house. Her father was often irritable. He flung a plate across the dining room once because he was displeased with dinner.

He had softer sides, too, she said.

He would sing arias in his room when he thought no one was listening. He took his wife to clinics all over Europe to find a cure for her migraines. He sent Grandmother a surprise ticket to Geneva as a high school graduation present. He had his money and his gestures.

One night, Ali Raif invited a neighbor, Hüseyin, to dinner in return for fixing their new washing machine. Grandmother treated him with courtesy and served tea and coffee. After, Hüseyin begged his older brother to meet Grandmother and spoke of her with admiration.

The brother, named Asim, put a hand on Hüseyin’s shoulder.

He told him, Dear little brother, I can’t marry a rich girl. We’re just a modest family from Anatolia.

But the brother’s aunt and mother also knew of Grandmother and insisted he meet her.

They went to a waterfront cafe in Suadiye on the northern shore of the Marmara Sea. Then, to a pastry shop in Beyoglu and walked down Istiklal Avenue.

After that, they would meet secretly to talk and drink coffee together.

***

The day Asim went to Grandmother’s home to ask her father for her hand, Ali Raif said, This will not work.

A family friend had advised Ali Raif against allowing Grandmother to marry Asim.

He wouldn’t suit your family, the friend had said.

Around the same time, Grandmother’s sister, Tina, was going through a divorce. Ali Raif could not allow another doomed marriage among his daughters.

Devastated, Asim left the country on a business trip. Grandmother sent him a letter asking him to be patient. She wanted to marry him.

***

Asim was living with his brother Kerim and his mother in the seaside town of Yeşilköy. He decided to rent an apartment in a wealthier district for his soon-to-be wife and himself before their wedding.

Grandmother purchased the living room and bedroom furniture and Asim completed the dining room and kitchen. But he was worried. He was about to marry a girl who was used to more than he could offer.

A close friend reminded Asim that Grandmother’s family wealth provided her with a good education and etiquette. She had traveled more, and as a result, she had seen more.

Grandmother’s fluency in French and English would aid Asim during business trips and in deciphering manuals for machinery that would arrive for his factories from foreign companies.

After a year in their new apartment, Asim asked Grandmother if they could move back to Yeşilköy.

She said yes, and they moved into a two-floored house with Asim’s other brother, Kerim, and mother. They lived on separate floors but shared all their meals together.

Asim’s mother would set the table for breakfast and dinner. She would never place glasses for water. Grandmother had to remind herself that in the village where Asim and his family came from, they rarely drank water because if you wanted any, you had to get it yourself from the well.

Asim’s brother, Kerim, was paralyzed, having fallen from a tree in their garden when he was in seventh grade. He was climbing to the top in search of delicious figs. A thick branch broke his fall, but his hips caved in and he was left paralyzed from the lower chest down.

Grandmother showed me the same fig trees that stand outside our house walls. The figs fall, forming red and green fleshy graves for stray dogs and cats to stride over.

Grandmother played pinochle with Kerim and they gossiped about their neighbors.

One morning, Kerim threw a Quran into the furnace and Grandmother had to convince Asim that his brother needed professional help. They couldn’t live like this.

Asim took Kerim to various doctors in search of miracle cures. Kerim was sent to a psychiatric hospital in Vevey, Switzerland for a few years.

The nuns soon demanded Kerim be taken back home after he’d set himself on fire by pressing a lit cigarette onto his mattress.

Asim and Grandmother brought Kerim back home and he died a few years later.

Grandmother cried. She still cries whenever someone mentions Kerim’s name.

***

Grandmother had three children. She also became a board member of Asim’s company.

She visited the factories and offices. She posed for photographs at openings, ceremonies, and celebrations. She kept her home clean and beautiful. She picked fresh flowers from her garden every day.

During a check up, her doctor saw a shadow on her breastbone. Her doctor said if was cancer, he could remove the breast or just the cancerous portion.

Remove the whole thing, Grandmother said.

You did this to her, Asim told their three children.

The day after surgery, a nurse walked in and told Grandmother to get up and take a shower.

My Grandmother stared at the tubes coming out of her.

What will I do with these?

I’ll hold them, but you will wash yourself. She brought out shampoo and my grandmother offered her left hand, the side that still had a breast and lymph tissue, the side that from this point on, could not get infected or hurt.

No, the other hand, the nurse said. Don’t be afraid to use it.

Grandmother asked her doctors to lower the dosage of her painkillers because they made her tired.

Look at the flowers everyone sent, she said. She got out of bed and began to check the water levels in the vases. She moved some of the flowers closer to the window, especially the wild violets.

Wild violets are considered a weed by some, but she loved them. They adapted.

***

I woke up on a Sunday morning and checked my phone.

The women in the family have a group conversation that never stops. Grandmother reads the messages and saves the photos but never writes anything.

There was a single message from my mother. She and my aunt were at the hospital.

Grandmother fell from her terrace into the garden below as she was picking flowers. But her mind is sound. At this age, the body may break but the mind is important.

I call and the rest of the information is told in parts. My mother says the stray kitten that hangs out on the terrace tripped Grandmother. Maybe she just got dizzy and stepped one step too far.

I know every part of that terrace. The granite edge, the two columns on either end, covered in ivy, keeping the house up. The sun sets at a point blocked by the left column but sometimes jasmine will grow on it too, so the scent will make up for the view.

A large magnolia tree rises up near the center of the terrace from the garden below it. Right at the edge of the house, the ground slants down and a few marble steps lead to an indoor pool. The tree has been there since I can remember, larger than the magnolia tree that my own room’s walls press against.

Sometimes if a flower is close enough, I’ll reach out my window to snap a bloom off the tree and bring it down to my mother. I’ve slipped a few times and heaved myself back inside.

Grandmother couldn’t have held onto anything. She probably saw the little black and white kitten watching her as she fell. She broke her hip and tailbone.

But her mind is sound and she is aware, my mother and aunt repeat on the phone.

I think about the damage of lying on a bed for four months, of walking again after having hip surgery, of the pain she will still feel as the weather changes and the winds pick up outside her seaside home. I think about how this wasn’t her first fall but reading the words “she fell from her terrace into the garden,” in my bed in New York, miles away from home, creates a new kind of horror.

I want to go back home- to see her when she wakes up from surgery, but several relatives tell me there is nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do but sit and wait, wait for her old bones to heal.

Grandmother calls.

They’ve raised my hospital bed so I can look out the window. There are flowers by the lake.

You were the one who told us to stay away from the edge of that terrace, I say.

She laughs. She says, I know. I was just trying to pick flowers. 

Grandmother was trying to reach the wild violets.

The Lumena Center didn’t do much for me ever, and on a Friday night especially, with all of its fluorescent lights illuminating the worst in the shoppers and supplement poppers and gamers and everyone moving within. Samsun was a habitué of the Center’s VR cage, where guys, mostly, would play games wearing headsets, each assigned to a different padded cubicle. This abutted a literal cage where people gamed together and one of the challenges was not running into one another. In the last cage, people threw axes at life-size outlines of bodies projected onto a wall.  This was justified as physical exercise, somehow, that helped sublimate aggressive tendencies or something like that. Samsun came here most Fridays, Celia had said. And we had vowed to help Celia avenge her sadness and what had become our mutual anger at his postfuck weirdness.

The Center had dispensaries at both ends with moving walkways spanning the distance between them. Between, there were kiosks for magnetic resonance and mental reset techniques and sign-ups for electrostimulation rooms. There were dosing hubs and recharge stations. People came on Friday evenings after school, after the factory’s second shift, though I never understood why so many people were drawn to come here at the same time, as if being in a crowd were an experience they desired.

I met Celia and Azzie on one end of the second-floor walkway. When together we became a we in a way that made us stronger, bolder, a blur. Celia had done her hair up in braids that circled her head. She wore plastic fangs and a billowy see-through dress. She wore all black and a fanny pack. She had this new hand tremor too. When I asked her about it she laughed, said the EMPTEZ had only made her cranky and shook her, literally. She’d been clawing walls ever since.

Azzie wore a bomber jacket and combat boots. I went for a more discreet, undercover look: black turtleneck and pants, augmented clear plastic framed glasses that could record my path of vision. Celia passed her antler around and we each took turns sniffing its Insta_Pleasure and licking our fingers for luck.

I queued the TrackHer®. It said Samsun was moving dynamically through the VR cage. We split up, turned our cameras to record, and took separate paths toward his location. I went zigzag between the walkways, checking the others’ locations frequently. Celia moved more fluidly from side to side almost as if in doing so she were delaying the inevitable encounter. Azzie beelined and found Samsun first. He was checking into the ax throwing side, waiting on gear. He stood captivated by his device and unaware of her encroachment, Azzie said.

“Oh wait, eye contact made,” she noted. I couldn’t see the feed of what was happening, but I heard his mumble of a greeting and Azzie starting to rant: “Don’t hi me like we’re friends. You’re too busy throwing axes to respond to texts?” I paused to look at Celia’s stream. It looked like she was detouring.

This wasn’t how we’d planned it, but I knew of no other way forward so I carried on. Azzie and Samsun were in a stalemate. Behind them was a desk and a behind that a man holding an axe. I saw Samsun’s confused face and Azzie up in it, looking like she was about to bite his head off.

“You know, it’s pretty shitty that you won’t return Celia’s messages,” I told Samsun.

He was like, “Chill guys, you definitely need to Re-set.”

Azzie started in again, “Don’t ‘guy’ me. You fuck with Celia, you fuck with us.” She threw her chest up against his and stared him down.

He took two steps back, threw up his arms, and was like, “What the fuck!?” And walked off.

I grabbed Azzie and pulled her back. She panted at me, that she was just about to launch into him. I told her she was lucky I’d stepped in as I gazed at the guys in the cage just beyond us, wandering blindly in a realm that made sense only to them. They had headsets covering their eyes, devices in hand, cords tethering them to the mainframe like umbilical cords.

“Abort, abort,” I shouted into my device. Where was Celia? She’d turned off her camera though she still had audio on. “Celia. Meet us in the second-floor women’s bathroom.”

We took a moment and headed across the way, and entered the powder room, where we sat on the floor.

“Azzie, I wouldn’t call that subtle…”

“You didn’t see the look he gave me.”

 “You deviated.”

“You think she’s pissed?”

 “I mean, she’s not responding.” I messaged Celia again: “Where are u? Not showing on the device. Come, come. A. says she’s sorry. “

 We decided to get on with the part deux. Next step was to hack into the local LED signage network and transmit Samsun’s Ihaznodick.gif across it. It wasn’t even a dick shot, just a series of images of him dressed head to foot in black, his slinky body fading into the dark corner, with a bright light above washing his sad, sad face. It made him look isolated. There might have been a tear in his eye.

“She can always say she wasn’t involved or some shit.”

“You think?”

“I was just trying to empower her.”

 “You could’ve let her lead, you know? Let her slap his face, pull his hair, have a physical confrontation.” I sensed Azzie was really the one who’d wanted this. It was the male chimp who would show aggression, not the female, not the bonobo. Azzie had some real dick-related anger of late. Like she wanted to be the dominant male. I couldn’t help but think of her father, still missing after so many years and the weight that had on her. She wouldn’t talk about him, ever. I knew from Judy that he just got in his truck one day and never showed up to pick up his haul, never returned to Lumena Hills. His truck was found abandoned at a rest stop. No trace of him. No sign of foul play. Azzie changed the subject if it ever came up. But perhaps if we regressed, she’d be able to claim some form of dominance and heal.

People came and went as we sat there in the powder room attempting to hack into the local network. We moved to two plush chairs with a table between, its smooth self-cleaning surface used for cutting powders, organizing doses. Some girls lingered, but most came and went, passing the mirror, pulling hair, licking teeth, applying rouge, sniffing vials, taking cases from their purses and placing pills in their cheeks.

The fluorescent lights made my head scream.

No word still from Celia. My attempt to hack the network wasn’t working. 

Azzie said to let her try. I handed my device to her.

I queued Celia’s camera feed. She’d turned it back on. It was static. All I saw were series of induction pots hanging.

“Something’s wrong,” I told Azzie. “Looks like she’s in kitchenware.”

“Sure, yeah this isn’t working. Let’s go find her.” Azzie dug her hand into her pack and pulled out a tiny plastic banana and split it in half. She tapped out a palmful of pink tablets, swallowed one, held her palm to me. “Edge Eraser?” she offered.

I took one too and then we left. We walked through a side door into the store showroom, past a series of screens and speakers and signal amplifiers, accessories like earpieces, headsets, glasses, helmets. We followed a maze to and through women’s samples — formal dresses with elaborate brocades, others cut in modern shapes, boxlike and awful. Like, who would even wear these? We went on to lingerie, panties, and peek-a-boo nighties, we pushed through silks, pulled them through our fingers and held them to our faces, then headed to kitchenware.

I looked again at the camera stream and Celia’s display. I saw two sets of legs, one from the feet up, and the other squatting, with knees pointed at the camera.

In front of us, there were two guards, one standing over a counter and the other crouching under. I saw Celia’s phone on the floor.

I asked the standing guard if he’d seen Celia. I described her black hair and blonde roots, her black billowy dress.

“Fangs?” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded and pointed toward the display of knives. They were shiny and sharp and strapped down. The other guard pointed to the door. “She went that way.” He said he’d walked up as she was attempting to break a knife from the case. She had dropped the knife and run away.

“You just let her run?”

“Look, I tried to see if she was okay.”

I grabbed Celia’s phone from the floor and we took off, dodging perfume bots attempting sprays. The sky outside was dark with clouds and rain was pouring over the line of vehicles exiting

We decided to split up and canvass the parking lot.

“No flaking,” Azzie said.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

I walked past the loading docks on the backside. On the other side, I saw a tiny woman standing by the side entrance. With her tiny fingers she held a tiny kerchief over her head. She looked observant and very wet.

I asked if she’d maybe seen Celia: “Blonde braids, black dress, perhaps a bit discombobulated?”

She seemed to have trouble with her words. Her phrases came in spurts: “A particular…? I cannot tell…. Honestly …  you look,   nice girl …”

She was no help. I walked back toward the loading dock.

In the distance, I thought I made out Celia’s outline walking in the lot. She looked lost. Her hair was soaked. She was walking along a row of parked cars back toward the Center, toward me.      

She tripped and stumbled and all of a sudden her body launched into the air, she flew forward, and into the path of a sports utility vehicle.

The sports utility vehicle halted and I started running. I watched Celia fall so slowly–her shoulder hit its grill and then she crumpled, it seemed, into a heap the ground.  I ran over to her side and kneeled beside her. The sports utility vehicle’s lights made her look ghastly, her billow wilted, her pale skin damp. She looked like she was crying but it might’ve been the rain on her face.

“What’s going on Cici? Tell me you’re okay…?” 

This didn’t seem to register. She had a cut on her chin and her braids had fallen though that looked like the extent of her injuries.

The SUV driver was still in her car. Her shocked O of a mouth made her look like she was hyperventilating, with two screaming kids beside her. Finally she popped her door and ran over, and was like, “Are you trying to give me a heart attack or what?”

“Lady, look, I think she’s hurt.”

She was no help. She just freaked. “Oh god it’s not my fault. She hit us. We had no velocity and now just look at her.” She took a capsule from her pocket and put it under her tongue. I had no time for her hysterics, to wait for it to kick in. I grabbed Celia’s hand and tried to help her up but she was dead weight. The cars were lining up. I sent a location pin to Azzie and told her to get out here and quick.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” the SUV driver said.

“No, no don’t do that…” I turned to Celia, wanting her to agree, but she lay there, her eyes wide and without expression.

The woman was already talking to someone on her device. The children in the SUV started pressing their faces into the windshield, putting their mouths on the glass, and then turning the headlights on and off. The woman said paramedics were on their way, then went back to sedate her little monsters, or so I hoped. They were acting like little cretins whose behavior was so beyond. Judy would’ve had a field day with them.

Azzie came running just as the ambulance pulled up. She and I stood to the side as the EMTs asked Celia a long list of questions. They asked her to hold up one finger for yes, two for no. She could do this. They pressed their gloved hands over her body. I wondered what shape it would’ve made if they’d been wearing my gloves. They pulled her dress down to rub her chest. They needled and masked her and then lifted her onto a stretcher.

Azzie asked “What’s going on?”

The tall one said, “I can’t conjecture. Nothing apparent. No contusions, no lacerations, no pupil dilation.” They needed to run tests. She said it was standard procedure and lifted the back end of the stretcher into the ambulance. I attempted to climb in after them but she blocked me.

“Uh-uh! You can’t ride.”

“Just me?” I pleaded.

“No minors,” she barked. But she seemed to take pity. “Sorry, not my rules. We’re taking her to the Downtown Hospital. You can check on her there. Her guardians have been alerted.”

The ambulance drove off, its lights rotating, the sound blaring, and the traffic again started moving. Azzie and I stood there watching, the rain running down our faces.  

We walked back into the warm and dry of the Lumena Center feeling defeated. It was emptier near closing time, and we stood in the glare of its lights. I suggested we get a ride to the ER — though Azzie said it was pointless. They wouldn’t let us in without Celia’s mother’s permission. And besides, it takes so long for them to do anything there. She said Celia would be placed in a tiny room where she’d be poked and needled even more, and there’d be just enough room in that room for Celia and her mother. “I’ll call my mom,” she offered. “Ask her to keep an eye out for Celia, you know, keep us posted on what’s going on.”

The Med Rx dispensary’s counter was still packed. Its walls were so clean and bright, and between those walls were so many bodies. The bodies on the other side of the counter wore form-fitting suits and swept pills across plates with long, blunt knives. They used scales to measure powders, tapped powders into capsules. They mixed herbs and emollients with long butter knives.

The line was so long for made-to-order so we made a beeline for the machine. We tapped the screen for the round orange balls, SunKisses. Two grams of Insta_Pleasure, a focus enhancer, and a purple pellet relaxant.

We took the Delixir, too. What was left. Two tablets. It was enough for the night.